World of Warcraft: Vol'jin: Shadows of the Horde

by Michael A. Stackpole

  Gyran’zul intervened. “The purity of your faith, Honored Khal’ak, be reflectin’ great esteem upon your master and your family. No doubt your fidelity to the loa be accounting for our great initial success. We gonna communicate that to the loa, and we gonna be prepared to set sail immediately.”

  “You be pleasing our master.”

  The young troll raised a finger. “Dere be one other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  The shaman pressed his hands together. Slender and delicate, too much so. His eyes narrowed. “The loa speak to us, and they speak to some among the Horde, but this does not occupy the whole of their attention.”

  “What else be there?”

  “This be the point. We do not know. The reason the storm concerns us be because when we seek whatever else there be, it be hiding behind a curtain. It could be a ghost. It could be a troll in the distance. It could herald da birth of a troll destined to greatness. We do not know, and we must tell you of it because you seek certainty where doubt exists.”

  A shiver ran the full length of her spine. Somehow the presence of this unknown troll concerned her more than learning Horde and Alliance had come to Pandaria. They were known quantities. The Zandalari could deal with them. But how does one lay contingency plans for an unknown? The mogu assured them that the pandaren were, effectively, defenseless. What else could dere be?

  Khal’ak looked past the shaman toward the south, where mists gathered just beyond the harbor. Their fleet would sail into the night and through another night. She’d been to Pandaria. She’d chosen the landing zone. A small fishing village with nothing of substance or value save a decent harbor. Once they’d landed and secured the harbor, they’d plunge inland. Troll scouts indicated there was nothing that could stop them. Nothing even to slow the Zandalari down.

  Other than succumbin’ to the suspicions of those who stand to lose the most if we succeed. She glanced at Gyran’zul again and felt certain he wasn’t playing a game. If he wanted power, she would give it to him. The both of them knew that. Therefore his concerns were real.

  Khal’ak nodded. “You gonna prepare to sail. You gonna bend your will to determining what be hidden in da void, in that pale shadow. All of you. If you do not be satisfyin’ me on this point, I gonna feed you to the loa until they be satisfied. No thwarting us, something that does not exist.”

  • • •

  That night, far to the south, Vol’jin found his sleep disturbed by a vision. This surprised him. After Hir’eek’s visit, the loa had ignored him, and he had affected to ignore them in turn. He’d realized that to reach out to them before he knew who he was would only be an attempt to mimic who he had been. As Tyrathan’s companion would not come to a summons from someone he did not recognize, it would not do for Vol’jin to reestablish a bond with the loa if he was not going to be the troll who had created it in the beginning.

  He couldn’t identify the loa sending him the vision. He soared through the air effortlessly, so it could be Akil’darah. Still, he flew at night, and the eagle would not. Then he realized he was actually floating and seeing through many eyes. He decided that Elortha no Shadra, the Silk Dancer, had made him into one of her children. He floated high, suspended from spider-silk threads carried by the wind.

  Below him clouds parted. Ships under full sail made haste south. It had to be ancient times, for the broad, square sails carried Zandalari crests. He couldn’t call to mind any time in history when the Zandalari had launched such a powerful fleet.

  He looked up at the night sky, expecting to see the constellations arranged in different ways. That he recognized them shocked him.

  And he laughed.

  Very good, Mother of Venom. You be showing me a vision of a now where I could assemble such a fleet. You be showing me the glory I could win for you and the loa. So generous a vision. I could even be believing it would further my father’s dream. The problem be, am I still Sen’jin’s son?

  The breeze failed.

  The spider fell.

  And Vol’jin brushed it and its web away from his face, before turning onto his side and sinking back into a dreamless sleep.

  11

  Even though Lord Taran Zhu’s uncharacteristic revelation of emotion—seen in a pinched expression that mixed disapproval with serious reservation—hinted at trouble, Chen could not help but smile. His heart was fit to bursting with pride and happiness, both being redoubled with Taran Zhu’s agreement with his plan.

  A great chunk of his happiness came from his knowing that Yalia Sagewhisper’s intercession had changed the old monk’s mind. Chen had managed, while working at Zouchin and then on the way back, to mash together ingredients for a wonderful brew. He was certain it would be for Pandaria what the Get Well brew had been for Vol’jin. He wanted to share it when he got back, and his sheer enthusiasm, he realized now, had probably been what made Taran Zhu dubious of the effort.

  That Yalia had spoken with the monk on his behalf had touched him deeply. Chen liked her. He always had. On the journey, however, he found even more to like. He also found reason to hope that she might return some of his affection. How much, he wasn’t sure, but anything was good, because from small eggs grew mighty turtles.

  No one at Zouchin had recognized her, and it struck Chen as odd that she did not immediately seek out her family. She certainly learned about them, from Li Li and others, and learned that they prospered. Even her grandmother still lived. Yalia held herself apart, and a piece of that withdrawal had her pulling away from him as well.

  Chen had a hard time understanding her desire for distance—from her family, not so much from him. In Pandaria, Chen found pieces of home he’d been missing. Zouchin felt like another one. It had readily available resources that made it perfect for a small brewery. The moment he saw it, he was determined to build one there because it was the perfect location, and it would bring him closer to Yalia.

  That first night, after he’d brewed tea, he broached the subject of her family.

  Yalia stared into the depths of her tea bowl. “They have their lives, Master Chen. I left so they would have peace. I would not bring havoc here.”

  “Don’t you think knowing you are well and respected would bring them more peace?” He shrugged and forced a smile. “I worry whenever Li Li is out of sight. Your family must have worries or . . .” He fell silent as a thought occurred to him.

  She looked up. “Or?”

  “It wasn’t a worthy thought, Sister Yalia. Not of you.”

  “I would have you share it. Even if we decide it is an error, I would have honesty between us.” She laid a paw on his forearm. “Please, Master Chen.”

  He let the snap and pop of the little campfire they shared fill the silence for a moment, then nodded. “I wondered, only because I wonder it of myself sometimes, if it is your peace you wish to protect instead of theirs.”

  Her paw came back to her cup. She held it so still Chen could see stars reflected in the tea. “The monastery has provided me much peace.”

  “One can never tell how others will react. I would think your family would be happy to see you. Maybe a little sister will resent having had to do your chores, or your mother will mourn the cubs you never gave her to spoil. It seems to me that even if these things are true, they are minor upsets compared to the joy of knowing you live and are happy.”

  “Does a quiet night and warm tea make difficult wisdom more palatable?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t get many quiet nights and am not that often accused of committing acts of wisdom.” He drank tea and let a little drip from his muzzle, just to make her smile.

  She reached out and brushed a droplet away. “You are wise enough to play the clown at times when it needs playing. It makes entertaining your idea much easier. And to see the truth of it.”

  Chen couldn’t hide his smile, but he shrank it enough that it did not appear prideful. “You will see your family.”

  “Yes, but tomorrow. I should really like to enjoy anot
her peaceful night, with warm tea and a thoughtful friend. I shall remind myself who I am so I can share that with them, instead of trying to explain why I am not who they think I should be.”

  • • •

  The next day had dawned bright and warm, which Chen took as a good omen. He traveled with Yalia to meet her family. They deflected some of their shock at Yalia’s return into an enthusiastic welcome for him, since he was Wild Dog Li Li’s famed uncle. Apparently, in motivating workers, she’d invoked his name and suggested dire consequences were they such slack laborers and he were in command.

  Yalia’s father, Tswen-luo, recognized the truth behind the story almost immediately, because he, as the master of a fishing fleet, had to hide behind a similar mask. The two of them had also discovered a mutual love of beer and, as males would do, proceeded to try to drink each other under a bug’s belly. Somewhere in all of that, Tswen-luo agreed that the Stormstout Brewery should open an operation in Zouchin and that he would finance it in return for a modest share of profits and a bottomless mug.

  Though he spent his time with her father, Chen did watch Yalia interact with her family. She won immediate acceptance from nieces and nephews by shattering boards with a punch or a kick. They ran through the village with broken bits of wood, collecting a pack of cubs for another demonstration. Several of them were offspring of the pandaren who had been rivals for her favors. Chen caught a hint of melancholy on her face when they were introduced. Clearly they had no clue as to who she had been.

  Her mother and sisters tutted and scolded—at least, did so after shrieking and hugging and crying. Her brothers hugged her solemnly, then stole away back to work or for a mug or two with Chen. Yalia retained her composure and peace in dealing with all of them.

  And then she got to her grandmother. The old pandaren had grown frail with years, hunched, her flesh hanging loosely. She walked with a cane, better than Tyrathan on his worst days, but not by much. Age had clouded her dark eyes, so she lifted a paw to Yalia’s face and let it linger.

  “Are you the granddaughter I lent my scarf to?”

  “Yes, Ama.”

  “Have you brought it back?”

  Yalia looked down. “No, Ama.”

  “On your next visit you will, Granddaughter. I have been missing it.”

  Then the old pandaren smiled, gap-toothed, and embraced Yalia. Silence reigned as the elder female disappeared in the circle of Yalia’s arms. Their bodies shook with sobs that went unheard, which everyone affected not to notice.

  Which was why Tswen-luo burped loudly and inappropriately to divert attention to himself. Chen, being a good guest, and protective of his reputation as a prodigious belcher himself, rattled the rafters quickly thereafter. That way the women could not vent their emotions in scolding the patriarch too much, and Yalia and her grandmother were granted a bit more privacy amid utter chaos.

  Over the next two days, reconstruction work finished in the village and preparations for building the brewery commenced. Chen designated Li Li as his agent and enlisted the Stoneraker brothers—who happened to arrive with the food they’d promised—as masons. They clearly weren’t cut out to be farmers, since their fields had grown more stones than turnips, and they’d spent enough time hauling rocks from their fields that a mason’s work suited them.

  Chen took some time to gather herbs from the area and prepare a test mix in a wooden keg, which he strapped to the small of his back. It sloshed as he and Yalia slogged their way back to the monastery. He burped it every so often, and watered it, and fed bits of this and that to the mix.

  On the road Chen frowned as Yalia paused at the base of a switchback. “I realize I may need to apologize, Sister Yalia.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “For inserting myself into Zouchin.”

  She shook her head. “You have been seeking a home, and you found that Zouchin felt like home. Why would you apologize for that?”

  “It is your home, and I would not intrude on your privacy.”

  Yalia laughed, and Chen enjoyed the sound of it immensely. “Dear Chen, the monastery is my home. I am fond of Zouchin—and fonder now that you like it as well. But you, as a wanderer, must know that a true sense of home must be carried within. If one cannot spend a silent evening sipping tea and feel at peace, there is no geographical place that will confer that peace. We seek a place because it amplifies that peace. It shows us another face of it and reflects it back on us.”

  She pointed back down in the distance. “By seeing Zouchin through your eyes, and by reuniting with my family at your suggestion, I now have another place that will amplify peace. But you should know that on a quiet night, sipping tea with a friend, I feel even more peaceful.”

  Chen felt that had she suddenly become a tree and rooted herself in that spot, he would never wander farther than the shade she provided. He couldn’t say that, of course, and his smile couldn’t convey it. So he climbed up to where she stood, wishing the brew would not slosh so loudly, and nodded.

  “Quiet night, or loud, with tea or beer or just cool water, I would also feel at peace with my friend.”

  She shyly turned her face from his, but could not hide a smile. “Then let us return to our home away from our homes, and enjoy that peace as well.”

  • • •

  Only after Yalia had made a case to allow it did Taran Zhu agree to permit Chen to share his new concoction with a select few of the monks in the monastery. Yalia was not among them—Taran Zhu had chosen five of the eldest. Chen wasn’t sure if the master monk felt things would turn into a drunken debauch, or if he just felt these monks might appreciate the new experience. He was betting more on the former than the latter.

  Vol’jin and Tyrathan also joined the group, though they arrived separately. Chen couldn’t help but notice a stiffness and formality between them. It probably wasn’t that vast a gulf, but compared to the closeness he felt with Yalia, the two of them appeared to be continents drifting apart.

  Chen poured for each guest a modest portion of his concoction. “Please understand this is not a final formula. I mixed many things together, including some of the spring beer I brewed a while ago and left forgotten in the storerooms. I won’t tell you what I mean this to be. What I wish from each of you is to know not what it tastes like but what it feels like. You’ll taste and smell, but those sensations will link back to memories.”

  He raised his own bowl. “To home and friends.” He bowed his head first to Taran Zhu, then Vol’jin, then all the others in order around the table. As one, save for Taran Zhu, they drank.

  Chen let the brew linger on his tongue. He easily picked out berries and hints of heart’s ease, but other ingredients had mixed and mingled into a sometimes sweet and sometimes sharp taste, with just a bit of bite. He swallowed, relishing the scratch running down his throat, then set his cup down.

  “This reminds me of a time, in lands beyond the mists, when I found myself the dinner guest of three ravenous ogres. Well, not their dinner guest really, but their dinner. They argued among themselves what I was going to taste most like. One said I’d taste like rabbit, since I was a bit mottled, and I said, ‘Very close.’ Another suggested bear, for obvious reasons, and I said, ‘Very close again.’ And the third said crow—he had a rather odd dent in his skull—so I said, ‘Very close for you as well.’ Which left them arguing.”

  A monk smiled. “So you chanced to escape.”

  “Very close.” Chen grinned and drank a bit more. “I offered to settle the argument by way of a contest, with a prize. I told them to fetch rabbit, bear, and crow, and to cook each up, for they must have the taste in their mouths if they were to know what I truly tasted like. And I offered to brew something for each meat and then to make a brew they could enjoy with me. So they set off, each to fetch his meat. They cooked them all up, and I brewed. Then they ate. And I chanced to ask which brew tasted best with which meat, which set them arguing again. So they swapped meals and drinks around. And I, after a night’
s revel, being the only sober one, walked away free in the morning.

  “This brew reminds me of how freedom felt in the dawn’s light.”

  The monks laughed and applauded—even Tyrathan chuckled. Only Taran Zhu and Vol’jin remained untouched by the story. But Vol’jin drank, then nodded and set his cup down. “This be reminding me of the peace one knows from crushing his enemies. Their dreams be dying with them, leaving your future clear, like a morning after rain. Its crispness be echoing the snap of their bones. The sweetness be the joy of hearing their dying sighs. And I be tasting the freedom there, as well.”

  The troll’s story left everyone quiet and the monks wide-eyed. Tyrathan drank, then smiled. “For me it is autumn, as the leaves turn crimson and gold. It’s gathering the last of the crops, finding the last of the berries, everyone working together to lie in stores for the coming winter. It is a time of unity and joy in preparation for the uncertainty of winter—yet with the knowledge that hard work will be rewarded. So, it is freedom for me too.”

  Chen nodded. “Yes, both of you, you found the freedom. Good.” He looked over to where Taran Zhu sat, his bowl yet untouched. “And you, Lord Taran Zhu?”

  The eldest monk stared at the bowl, then lifted it carefully in two paws. He sniffed, then sipped. He sniffed again, then drank a little more before setting his bowl down.

  “This is not for me a memory. It is a portrait of now. Of a state of being of the world.” He slowly bowed his head. “And of freedom, for change. It portends coming change. Crushing of enemies, perhaps; a coming winter, most like. But as you will never brew exactly this brew again, so the world will never again know this time or, alas, this peace.”

  12

  With some bitterness lingering on his tongue from Chen’s offering, Vol’jin took himself out and away from the monastery. Taran Zhu’s remark echoed in his head and found resonance with Tyrathan’s tale of harvest time among men. Autumn, the time the world died, death being the line drawn between old and new, another definition for change. Cycles like that implied new, and creatures with an awareness of self and of time often chose a season or other arbitrary chronological point to mark the end or herald the beginning.